


*cocks espresso machine* mall's haunted

by flashhwing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Shopping Mall, Customer Service, Gen, Humor, instead of an archive there's a coffee kiosk in a mall, no spooky archives, yes spooky mall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26970712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashhwing/pseuds/flashhwing
Summary: “Anyway,” said Tim, making a show of checking his watch, “it’s 10:45, which means it’s time for me to take a fifteen minute break.  Think you can handle yourself out here while I’m gone?”Martin took a deep breath and stood himself behind the cash registers, fidgeting with a sharpie.  The cafe hadn't exactly been busy so far, and going from the last few hours it was perfectly possible to go fifteen minutes without a customer.But still.  He’d only learned how to use the equipment that morning and could only hope it didn’t show.“Oh, by the way!” Tim had poked his head back through the door and was looking at Martin with a serious expression that wildly contradicted the light air to his voice.  “Dunno if anyone told you, but, well.  Nobody who works in the mall is human, except us in the cafe.  Just thought you should know.  Alright, ‘bye!”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker
Comments: 17
Kudos: 81





	1. Welcome to the Magnus Cafe! Kiosk.  Thing

**Author's Note:**

> behold, the haunted mall/coffeeshop au nobody asked for!
> 
> chapters will be short and updates will not be scheduled. have fun!

“Well, you certainly look like a barista. How do you feel?”

_ Like a fraud _ , Martin didn’t say. He didn’t think it’d go over well. He’d only worked at the Magnus Cafe for approximately fifteen minutes, and sure he trusted Tim enough to admit he lied on his application (he had to, he needed someone to teach him how to, well, make coffee, and Tim was the only other person working with him that morning), but he’d only known the guy for approximately fifteen minutes and didn’t want to push his luck and get fired on his first day and have to find  _ another _ job he wasn’t qualified for …

“I, uh, feel like a barista?” Martin hazarded.

“That’s the spirit!” Tim clapped him on the back and led him further into the cafe. Although really it wasn’t a cafe, really it was just a sort of large kiosk in the middle of a shopping mall, but it called itself the Magnus Cafe so Martin thought he’d also call it a cafe. Out of respect.

“So,” Tim continued, leaning against the bar. “Lying on your CV, eh? Respect, but you  _ are _ gonna need to know what’s what if you’re gonna work here. Know what this is?” He gestured to the machine behind him.

“An espresso machine.” Martin was a liar, not an idiot.

“Know what it does?”

“Er. Makes drinks?”

“Know how to use it?”

Martin sighed. “Not a clue.”  


“There we go.” Tim gave him a wink and a fingergun. It was somewhat disarming. 

And for the next half hour or so Tim showed him … everything. Or, it felt like everything, at least. After learning how to pull a shot, how to steam milk, the difference between a latte and a cappuccino, what the hell a macchiato even was, how many shots of espresso and pumps of flavor syrup to use, and the proper order in which all the steps go, Martin thought he rather had a handle on this whole barista thing.

Until an old man strolled vaguely towards the counter, and Tim beamed at him and exclaimed “Ah, the Jurg-meister has arrived! One medium London fog coming right up!”

Martin didn’t know what a London fog was. Tim hadn’t covered that in his drinks crash course.

Also, were they even open? Martin was sure the mall didn’t open until 11, and it was barely 8.

“Are we even open?” he muttered to Tim as soon as he’d finished ringing the man up. “I thought the mall didn’t open ‘till 11, and it’s barely 8.”

“The mall does open at 11,” Tim explained, “but  _ we  _ open at 8. Also it’s like, 8:07, we’ve been open for seven minutes. Do you know what a London fog is?”

“No.”

A London fog, it turned out, was one part Earl Grey, one part steamed milk, with a half shot of vanilla. It was not listed on the Magnus Cafe menu. 

Martin hoped he wouldn’t have to remember too many drinks that weren’t on the menu.

“Here you are, Jurgen,” Tim said when they were done, handing the drink off to the old man with a smile. “Hope you have a lovely day! Come back soon!”

The man took his drink and shuffled off with neither a ‘thank you’ nor a smile.

“I hate that guy so much,” Tim muttered, smile still plastered to his face. Martin stared at him. 

“Okay? Why?”

“He’s just a bastard,” Tim shrugged. “Always grumbly. Never smiles. Might’ve killed a man in his youth, but Sasha says there’s no proof. Rich as hell and it  _ shows _ . Just watch, he’ll be back in thirty minutes complaining his drink is cold.  _ Of course it’s cold we made it thirty minutes ago! _ ” Tim rolled his eyes. “By far the worst of the mall-walkers”

“Sorry, the what?” The phrase made Martin think of zombies. Jurgen didn’t  _ look _ like a zombie, but then, he was  _ very _ old, and Martin hadn’t heard him talk …

“Old folks who are too frail for the gym so they come to the mall to walk around before it opens.”

“Oh,” said Martin. “For some reason I thought you meant zombies.”

“Well, some of them are,” Tim said. “But zombies don’t really like coffee, so they don’t bother us.”

Martin chuckled with only a little hesitation. Looked like he was gonna have to get used to Tim’s weird sense of humor.

Between Tim showing him how to use the blender (easy) and shakers (slightly less easy) and giving him increasingly complicated drinks to practice making, the morning passed relatively quickly. Every so often a mall-walker would come up and chat with Tim, who seemed to already know all of their names and orders before they said anything.

At least, Martin assumed they were all mall-walkers. They were there before the mall opened, and none of them looked to be under 60 anyway.

First there was Gertrude, a fragile looking woman who was nearly one with her cardigan. She ordered a small black coffee, asked Tim about their manager, Jonathan, and levelled Martin with a stare so intense he wondered if she was trying to take a glimpse at his nervous system. She tutted, said, “I suppose he’ll do,” and walked off without explanation.

Apparently she used to work at the Magnus Cafe. Martin was privately glad he’d missed her tenure.

Then there was Adelard, who had white hair and a handsome face and who ordered a large black coffee and joked with Tim about explosives. He, too, stared at Martin, but this one felt more appraising. He smiled, said “Yeah, I think he’ll do,” and walked off without explanation.

Apparently he was married to Gertrude. Martin thought this raised more questions than it answered.

There was also Mikaele, doppio red-eye, who, according to Tim, used to be a pirate; Maxwell, decaf latte, who, according to Tim, was the leader of a cult; and Mary, chocolate banana smoothie, who, according to Tim, was a serial killer.

“She’s not …  _ actually _ a serial killer, is she?” Martin asked, watching Mary’s retreating back warily.

Tim shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe? Ask the guys in Hot Topic, they know more about it.”

“Right,” Martin said, remembering the joke about zombies and reminding himself not to take everything Tim said seriously. Probably she was just a sweet old woman with creepy vibes. No way she actually murdered people and kept their skin in a book.

“Anyway,” said Tim, making a show of checking his watch, “it’s 10:45, which means it’s time for me to take a fifteen minute break. Think you can handle yourself out here while I’m gone?”

“Err …”

“Don’t worry, it’s still early,” Tim said, breezing past Martin and untying his apron. “You’ll mostly just get regulars who’ll be totally forgiving that you don’t know their names without ever meeting them.” He paused, and turned to look at Martin, brow furrowed. “Actually, if they  _ do _ get mad about that just tell them Elias is keeping an  _ eye _ on things, they should back down.”

Martin thought this was extremely odd advice, but he just nodded and tried to exude an air of confidence. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, you’ll only be gone for fifteen minutes right?”

“Yeah,” Tim mirrored Martin’s nod, his brow unfurrowing. “Who am I kidding, you’ll be fine.” He turned to leave, draping his apron over the kiosk door and shutting it behind him.

Two deep breaths, and Martin stood himself behind the cash registers, fidgeting with a sharpie. They hadn’t exactly been  _ busy _ so far, and going from the last few hours it was perfectly possible to go fifteen minutes without a customer.

But still. He’d only learned how to use the equipment that morning and could only hope it didn’t show.

“Oh, by the way!” Tim had poked his head back through the door and was looking at Martin with a serious expression that wildly contradicted the light air to his voice. “Dunno if anyone told you, but, er, well. Nobody who works in the mall is human, except us in the cafe. Just thought you should know. Alright, ‘bye!”

Martin’s brain took a second to catch up with what Tim just said, and when it did he felt like he’d short-circuited. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“Wait, what —” Martin dashed to the door to call after Tim, who was already halfway across the lobby. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, this place is  _ so _ haunted,” Tim called back casually. “Let’s see, security guards are all werewolves, Jane in the oriental shop is made of worms, there’s the, ah, Hot Topic ghosts … erm, oh, all the movie theater ushers are mannequins who escaped from Macy’s … yeah, the only humans who work here are us in the cafe. And honestly I’m not even entirely convinced about Elias.”

Martin gaped. Tim waved cheerily.

“Good luck! I’ll be back soon! Don’t burn down the kiosk, but if you do, remember to blame it on the fire daemon in Victoria’s Secret!”


	2. martin meets a ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, posting chapter two exactly a week after chapter one: is this a posting schedule?

Martin had just about convinced himself Tim was joking about the mall being haunted when a ghost walked up to the counter.

He knew it was a ghost because the man was see-through. He was also glowing slightly. Maybe he was a hologram but Martin was reasonably sure that technology didn’t exist yet.

Also when he blurt out “Are you a ghost” before he could stop himself, the ghost had replied “Yeah” in a very matter-of-fact voice.

Perhaps this was the Hot Topic ghost Tim had mentioned. He certainly looked like he shopped at Hot Topic, between the long, dyed-black hair and the black mesh shirt and the black tripp pants and the black nail polish and the black eye tattoos. Not that Martin was judging! As far as he was concerned, alternative fashion was the best kind. He himself currently sported lavender nail polish.

“Are you the Hot Topic ghost?” If impulsive questions were going to be Martin’s first impression anyway, might as well go all in. Blame it on being caught off-guard; he’d never met a ghost before. Ten seconds ago he didn’t believe they existed.

The ghost crinkled his nose at that. “Is that what people call me?”

Martin gave a non-committal jerk of his head. “I guess so? I’ve only been here for like four hours, I don’t actually know all the gossip.”

“New hire?” the ghost said sympathetically. When Martin nodded he continued, “Good luck. Most folks around here aren’t too fond of the eye.”

Martin wanted to ask what he meant by that, but before he could the ghost was extending a hand towards him. Apparently he was just going to have to accept that ghosts said cryptic things sometimes.

“I’m Gerry, by the way.”

Martin stared at the hand. The eyes tattooed across the knuckles stared back. It didn’t look solid enough to shake.

“You can shake it,” Gerry said. “It’s alright, I’m solid enough for that.”

“Oh, right. Right.” Martin blushed, and shook his hand. It wasn’t nearly as solid as the hands Martin had shaken in the past, but it was certainly _there_. Sort of. It was like a hand-shaped area of dense air. Probably Martin could’ve pushed his hand straight through, but that would’ve been rude and he rather thought he’d already used up his rudeness allowance. 

“You’ve never met a ghost before, have you?” Gerry was looking at him with a faintly amused expression, one eyebrow raised and lips quirked in a half grin.

“Can’t say I have. Until a minute ago I didn’t think they existed. No offense.”

“None taken. I can’t really blame you. Most people don’t.”

“That’s gotta be weird,” Martin mused. “Knowing most of the world thinks you don’t exist.”

Gerry shrugged. “You get used to it.”

An awkward silence fell between them until Martin remembered that he was, in fact, working. “Can - can I get you anything? Er, something to drink? _Do_ you drink?”

“Oh, nah,” Gerry said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “I just came by to see if Jon was here.” He peered around the register as if looking to see if Martin was hiding someone.

“No, he’s not in for another hour? I think?” Martin knew, actually, since he’d checked the schedule about a dozen times, but he always liked downplaying his knowledge. Lower expectations were harder to disappoint. “It’s just me and Tim right now, but Tim’s on break, so.”

“Buttons?” Gerry said after a slight pause.

“What?”

“Never mind. Mind if I hang around a bit? Nobody comes to Hot Topic at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday.”

“Oh, uh, yeah? Don’t see why not.”

“Cool.” Gerry put one hand on the counter and hopped over — a trajectory that sent him straight towards Martin. Martin flinched, waiting for the impact …

… Which never came.

Right, ghost. Gerry had simply gone right through him.

“Err, so …” Martin found himself at a loss for words. What sort of conversation did one make with a ghost? He and his friends used to dick around with a ouija board back in grade school, but he rather thought that sort of skillset didn’t apply here.

While Martin floundered, Gerry had seated himself at the chair by the manager’s workstation off to the side of the kiosk and was in the process of kicking his boot-clad feet up on the pastry display case. Martin wondered if that was sanitary. Should he stop him? Did ghosts have germs?

Gerry must’ve noticed Martin’s indecisive hovering, because he said in a voice that was not quite amused and not quite exasperated, “It’s okay, you’re allowed to ask how I died.” 

“Oh! No, that — I, err,” Martin cast around wildly for a less morbid subject of conversation. “I actually wanted to ask about Mary? Er, Tim said to ask you. If she was, y’know, a serial killer.”

Because serial killers weren’t morbid at all. Nice going, Martin.

“Yeah, she is.” Gerry studied him like he was a mildly interesting television program. “Does that scare you?”

“Er.” Yes. “Should it?”

In lieu of an answer, Gerry chuckled. “Good response. Keep up that attitude and you might just survive this.”

Well that wasn’t encouraging. “What do you mean? Is, is it because everyone here is, um, a monster?”

“Well, you shouldn’t call people monsters until you know their backstory, at least,” said Gerry. “But yeah, essentially.”

Martin was willing to take this in stride — he was talking to a ghost, after all, surely he could believe in other monsters as well — but by G-d he had. So many questions. Were the mall-walkers _actually_ zombies? How many other ghosts were there? Why was the mall full of monsters — was it some sort of supernatural hot-spot or was there something else going on?

But before Martin could settle on a question to ask, Gerry’s eyes caught on something behind him and widened; he muttered, “Shit, okay I was never here,” and disappeared with a faint _pop_.

So that was a thing ghosts could do, apparently. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://flashhwing.tumblr.com) to yell about tma


End file.
